


This Means War

by undernight



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Blood Pacts, Kinda, Lonely Dragonborn, M/M, Master/Servant, Reader's POV, Sanguine Rose, Slow Burn, Werewolf Dragonborn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-19 21:13:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8224952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undernight/pseuds/undernight
Summary: You are ignoble. You are alone, you are also the legendary Dragonborn. The revelation was sudden, so it couldn't change who you've been before, no matter how strong it was.  When the Daedric Prince of Debauchery grants you with an unexpected gift, you are excited to use it. But the consequences are equally unexpected.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I always thought a Dremora pulled out of Oblivion to fight at a Mortal's side wouldn't appreciate the gesture even a little bit, as we saw it in the conjuration ritual spell quest. So this multi-chaptered story is about how they see each other with a twist to their bidding. Hope you enjoy it!

This whole snow storm has been going on for the past seven hours, hindering your ability to concentrate on your magicka to warm you enough. You can’t start walking again only to spend all your energy on moving, so instead you chose to rest until it is over, or you’ll lose the rest that’s left of your magicka. You stare at the branches burning with creaking sounds in front of where you’ve been sitting in your little camp, reflecting on how much more of this frost you can take. At least watching the fire and trailing off after your thoughts make you lose sense of time, so you try this method every time you’re deprived of further traveling because of a snow storm. When the first storm started, your eyes immediately searched  for an oak tree with a huge trunk in a habit of a southern Breton, but there is no such luck here in the heart of whiteness. Instead, you settled next to an old trunk of a long dead tree, its solid presence nothing but a weak shelter against the vicious wind that had started to blow. You broke some of the branches off the tree and threw them on a hole you poorly dug with your feet through the layers of snow. After sitting with your back leaning against the trunk, and a deer pelt under your arse,  you distantly notice it took you several tries before you could finally make your magic work on the dead branches, setting them on a barely enough fire. With all the cold around you, it was getting harder to think straight.

 

You hug your knees to benefit from your decreasing body heat, the feeling of frost bite already creeping under your bones with your immobile state and make you feel unnaturally exhausted. Your head threatens to fall forward but you jerk it back every time you realise you’re drifting into a stupor that most likely won’t be temporary. It was three dawns ago that you’ve seen a mill with an owner that offered you a place to rest, but you had declined because of your impatience to reach your destination, excitement of a free journey overcame your rational side. Inhabitants there advised you to follow the road to Dawnstar, as it would be safer, but it is never safer for the Dragonborn to use roads. They crawl with strayed soldiers, Thalmor and many other threats worse than snow trolls. That’s why you took the infamous road of Wayward pass, chose to face snow trolls along with ice wraiths, and finally reached somewhere under the Snowpoint Beacon. It still doesn’t help that you haven't seen a rabbit or something else edible for the past day.

 

With a sigh that makes you see your breath in the air, you decide to set aside the tiring feeling of hunger, and start concentrating on your magicka to remember the necessary  words to create a flame cloak around you. It will make you much more tired, but you feel like you’re freezing to death, slowly. It takes a moment for a rational thought to come back to your mind, and then the welcomed feel of heat surrounds you before steam emerges quickly then disappears with the wind towards the west, and you’re finally covered in flames. Your gaze falls on the staff that is placed next to the weak campfire, orange flames dancing on your vision as it stares back at you.  You tried it twice during your journey but it didn't work for a reason you think has something to do with your depleted magicka.  You have to get to the safety and rest before you try it once more.

 

Night passes like that, between restless naps and trying to gain magicka by concentrating hard. By the time the storm stops, the sun is already rising up among the clouds. The heat of it starts tickling your skin under the armour, then seeps into your bones as you walk. You close your eyes momentarily to feel your body hungrily accept the sensation. It has been a long and demanding journey for you, but you’re so close now. When you open your eyes, the distant shade of Driftshade Refuge’s huge walls appears with a mysterious aura under the orange light, and you smile unintentionally at the familiar feeling of stone and its solidity. Just a few hours later, maybe even shorter, you will open your eyes to Dawnstar and visit the famous museum for the first time. Clutching hard at the staff in your hand, you start walking with newly risen determination despite your reluctant legs.

 

As you have guessed, you reach Dawnstar by dusk of Loredas, by the time the storm got stronger yet again. You start jogging towards the inn, casting what little energy there was left to your legs, and finally arrive at the door of Windpeak Inn. It is still cold, and you are completely wasted, but you finally sigh with relief when the creaking sound of the opening door reaches your ears. The abrupt warm air hits your face in full force, you ravish it by stepping inside and quickly closing the door behind you. You haven’t seen those villagers before, and neither do they seem to be phased by your intrusion but you feel so familiar after spending days out in the wilderness without seeing a decent soul that isn’t an unnecessarily hostile necromancer or a beast with a similar attitude. Nobody looks at you, which is another relief since as much as you appreciate seeing another being, you can only stand people after being isolated inside snow storms and constantly attacked by hostiles for days. Still keeping your dark hood on your head, your eyes quickly count four other people inside the inn, all of which are looking miserable. It strikes as odd to you even with your clouded senses, and as you approach the innkeeper’s desk, you overhear their conversation about how one of them feels awful about the nightmares they’ve been having, and other one’s soft tone while reassuring the stressed Nord with cliché words. You decide to not interfere for the time being, because you’re sure whenever you question a person briefly about some trivial looking topic, they’re almost always eager to tell you the story of their lives and everyone around them. You can not take that now. All you need is a hot meal followed by a warm bed.

 

Without waiting for them to finish their conversation, you awkwardly gesture to the innkeeper  and order the most recent meal. Your voice is croaked by the time it leaves your throat, and you shy away momentarily before he gives you a look that all innkeepers give to strangers, then slowly walks towards the cooking pot. You stare down daggers at your gloved hands on the desk, your fingers are clutched tightly with stress that returns when you're surrounded with people.  You realise the suffocating feeling creeping up and instantly force yourself to relax. You can not fail this now, it’s only fortunate to finally be in a safe and _warm_ place, don’t turn it into a torture. Easing your tense shoulders self-consciously, you sigh towards the ceiling. Yes, you are messed up.

 

By the time your meal arrives, two of the discussing villagers already left and there are now only three of you in the inn. The innkeeper puts the meal in front of you without looking up, then goes back to his job of drying glasses. The meal smells and looks delicious, or maybe it doesn’t but you’re in no state to judge objectively, so you immediately seize thinking and start ravishing it. It’s some kind of a soup made of meat with mashed potatoes, the distant scent of bay sticks to it like the fresh smell of earth after rain. When the innkeeper is done with the third glass, you are already finished with your meal. You put the fork down a little loudly to indicate you’re done, and the innkeeper is quick to turn his incredulous eyes towards you. A sheepish smile tugs at your lips before you leave twenty gold on the desk. “I need a room for tonight.” You tell him with a croaked voice as he fetches the plate up. He huffs and nods, it’s then you realise the purple bags under his eyes, probably from sleepless nights, but you let it go. Not in the mood, you repeat yourself inside your echoing head.

 

He shows you your room with a weary gesture of his hand, then goes back to his work as carelessly, kicking  you out of his attention zone. You stand up and adjust the strips of your backpack before pacing towards the left room. It is small and warm, some potions and flowers are left carelessly on the old desk alongside a weapon chest and a chair. Your eyes fall on the bed longingly as you leave your mace and the rose staff inside the chest, taking your dagger with you. Stepping out of your armour with slow motions, you rest the pieces of steel next to your bed and finally, lay down on the soft bed. You put the dagger under your pillow as a paranoid habit, but the presence of it is a mere reassurement for your tired soul. After a few heartbeats, the long-awaited safety of sleep takes you.

 

You wake up feeling well and no more exhausted. There’s nothing in your mind but the familiar tickling sensation of a strong amount of magicka, you feel it in every part of your body as it travels through your head till it reaches down to your toes and back up.  You give a few gold to the inn-keeper for a meat pie, and make your way out with hide on your back and a staff in your hand.

 

Nobody looks at you along the road as you walk with the intention to find somewhere isolated, but it feels kind of strange. Without any exceptions, everyone in this town has purple bags under their eyes and they look but don’t seem to see. Tension hangs heavily in the air, strong wind with snow does nothing to sweep it. Your mind lingers on the possibilities a little more before you let it wander closer, to the staff you’ve been holding, and a familiar feeling creeps into you. Excitement. In a sane mind, one would be cautious before trying anything with a staff that was given to them by an overly enthusiastic Daedric Prince who played childish games on them with the mere intention of having fun, but you are not in a sane mind. You are vaguely aware of this and it makes something close to fear blossom in you, but you keep that trunk locked.

 

You have paced long enough to reach a place where no guard wanders. Holding onto the staff, you examine it with your free hand, touching the wood and feeling every thorn and pattern on it. The rose decorating the top of it shines a bright pink momentarily, but considering the state of your mind, you may have imagined that. With a sigh, you close your eyes and prepare for whatever to come as you feel the familiar sensation of magicka surrounding you in a warm and static aura, causing goosebumps to appear all around your body. You angle the staff so that it points forward, then release the energy altogether. Almost immediately a huge purple bubble  emerges on the area the staff was aimed at with a loud sound, and disappears as quickly. You are not as inexperienced as many would think, so it’s not common sense that you’d recognize a conjuration portal when you see one. The haze leaves its place to a misty figure, slowly taking a definite form. You jerk back with alarm as you realise it is a huge person standing with their back to you, wearing some kind of ashen black armour that screams ‘powerful’ and an oversized sword surrounded with red cackling enchantment swapped on their back. You don’t have much time to gawk at the figure’s back before they turn around agonizingly slow to face you, almost like their movements are restricted by the heaviness of the, the, _glowing_ red armour, and you kind of feel proud of yourself when you keep your posture and don’t fall back on your ass because the skin of this creature that popped out of the staff is fucking black _and_ red, with horns curling behind on top of their head.

 

You should have guessed, they look so much like Sanguine but slightly shorter and maybe deadlier, because their black as void eyes don’t shine with amusement, or seem to have any kind of intention to have fun with your drunken self. _His_ heavy gaze falls on you, which makes your legs go weak because damn this to Oblivion, he seems so confident and disgusted at the same time. You realise you haven’t seen it all until he finally speaks, more of a growl like nothing you’ve ever heard.

 

“Mortal.” His voice is deep, as deep as the Stony creek cave, his eyes as dark as the Blackreach, and his posture crushes you as hard as the humiliation you felt after being taken as a prisoner in Helgen. You never felt bad because of your mortality, you do now. One less shit to experience in this world.

 

You gulp back a knot in your throat, unable to move or even retort. What is this creature? He looks so much like Sanguine that you distantly come to the conclusion that they’re probably the same race, or is this another Daedric Prince? No it can’t be, this is just a staff that was gifted to you in a twisted way, no way it can be that important. Between your mind’s rambles, you hear him making a sound which goes between self-assertion and repugnance, and your eyes immediately focus on him as you catch him looking away in a weary manner then setting his heavy eyes on you again. A click inside your mind, and you immediately realise this was a greeting on this creature’s own way, but it is too late now that what’s left of his little patience has already vanished.

 

“Am I at service of a weakling now? ” he all but asks himself, or maybe tries to bait you into giving some kind of reaction, but it works. The adjective makes the empathy part of your brain work, even just for a flash of a second, and you realise all too well how miserable and pathetic you must be looking. You faced the fiercy dragons for oblivion's sake, what's keeping you in this state? You manage to get out of your mind then come back to reality, which still feels kind of shattered, and you look away quickly before staring at him again. An urge to clear your throat creeps up, and you have no option but to obey before any kind of word leaves your mouth. So after gaining some confidence the small gesture brings, you retort back in a fake voice. “I am the dragonborn.” Okay, that isn’t what you were thinking. You painfully take note of his indifference before you quickly continue, “I demand an explanation, _what are you?_ ” the emotion-wise gap between two parts of the same sentence makes you cringe and want to crawl under some rock; the question sounded too shaky, too creaky as it left your mouth but you can’t take it back now. You’re stuck here, with a god-like creature that gives off a predatory aura, and your desire to know what is going on oppresses everything else. He snorts, or that might be his battle cry, _it sounds that harsh_ , then rests his weight on one leg before answering in a murderous tone of voice. “I am a Markynaz and your new… servant.” His voice drops several levels at the last word but you don’t blame him because, what?

 

“What?” you blurt out before thinking better. You are meekly aware of your face contorting in a most likely ugly way, but you don’t have time to care now. He gives a feline like growl, too low but enough to cause a vibration go through your body before he answers “Lord Sanguine attached me to you.” Your overwhelmed mind doesn’t have time to comprehend the words because he does something that makes your blood run cold through your already freezing body, and you stare wide-eyed with a blank mind as he starts walking towards you. No no no… no.

 

You raise your hands in a defensive and pleading gesture, “what, what do-” you notice it too late that the distance inbetween was way too short, as he takes a few steps and are already holding one of your wrists in a dead like grip. First thing you think is _hot_ , his gauntlets made out of a weird metal you’ve never seen before is burning hot on the part he makes contact, then he lowers your hand, turning your palm upwards on the way. He shuffles with your glove and tears it apart from your hand, dropping the leather unceremoniously to the ground. This all happened too quickly for your weak state to register, so dreadfully you hadn’t noticed how the tips of where his fingers should be have sharp ends to them, almost like a dragon’s claws, but it’s too late to feel the threat of it as with a single jerk of his index finger, he cuts a line through the sensitive skin of your palm. It happens too fast, too unbelievably awkward, as all you can manage is a low, unintentional ‘ouch’, not because of the pain but because you watched getting cut. He growls again, and even though you should have gotten used to it by now, it still sends a shiver through your body this close and making itself appear for the first time in a while, your wolf howls for submission inside your head. You shake the thought away with a growing fear, what has gotten into you? You are stilled on the place, can not act nor do something to stop him. This isn’t like you, but you don’t have any courage left, now that your wolf is away as quick as it appeared too.

 

You slowly look up to meet with his eyes. Suddenly, you stop blaming  the beast.  This creature is towering over you for at least five inches, if you don’t count the ancient-looking horns, and his black as coal eyes are intently focused on something down. You gaze back down before realising he let you go, but you’re still holding your palm up and open unconsciously; he’s busy with taking one of his own gauntlets off. “what are you actually doing?” you manage to ask with a lowered voice, the amazement of the whole situation is apparent there. Without looking at you, he answers with a equally lowered voice. “I am finishing the ceremony.” Like this explains everything, like this is a thorough answer, he goes back to shuffling with his gauntlet, and you follow suit. Once he has taken it off, he drops it off the same way he did to yours, then he cuts his palm with the gauntlet he still has on the same way he did to you. You raise your head to look at his face again, watching in your peripheral vision how he takes your bare hand into his own bare one, _and it’s hotter than anything you’ve touched_ , then he squeezes the cuts together. It’s then that he meets with your stare to say “We are now bound together.” He pauses for it to sink in, even though all you can do is gulp back a choke, then he goes on. “From now on, I shall rise from Oblivion to fight by your side whenever you call me, I will protect your life at all costs, until you die.” He pauses again with a grit of his teeth before half heartedly continuing, “only by then, your soul will be bound to me, and it will forever be _my_ servant in Oblivion."

 

You stare at the face so close to yours through the void inside your head and with a surge of dizzying sound accompanied by a purple smoke that shakes your stance, the unbelievable creature disappears before you.

 

Your knees finally give up, making you flop down on the hard snow, a soft thud reaches you from somewhere as the staff that is a solid proof of all of which has happened _is real_ falls behind you. The questions and blanks between them leaves you gazing at the slit on your palm, which is adorned with slowly dying embers.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Criticism and opinions in any shape or form is overly welcome. I'm trying to improve-- both in plot's general direction and my writing style. Thank you!!


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